


Silver and Gold

by Merrilly



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merrilly/pseuds/Merrilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale about a young bastard prince, a young witch of the Wilds, and the circumstances of their meeting... twelve years before the Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Songbird Princess

Deep in the very heart of the woods, miles and miles from the nearest village, a young maiden named Anann lived with her mother in a little wooden cottage.

They lived a quiet, peaceful life, living off of the fruits of the land, trading on occasion with what few merchants passed through the forest. Anann’s mother was a kind and gentle woman, and she taught her daughter all that she knew- how to find food in the forest, to cook and bake, to knit and sew, to tend to the sick… and to sing.

Anann was a lovely girl, with long, dark hair and rosy cheeks, but ‘twas her singing that was loveliest of all. When she wandered through the woods in search of berries and wild herbs, she sang a song her mother had sung for her as a child:

_Songbird, songbird, whist’ling in the tree_   
_Songbird, won’t you come and sing to me?_   
_Sing to me the music of the sky,_   
_From your little home so very high._

As Anann sang, her voice rang throughout the forest, and it was heard by every creature of the wild. Even the songbirds themselves were enchanted by her song. All who passed through the woods carried word of the singing maiden and her beautiful voice, and whispers of her fairness were heard even by the royal family in their castle.

However, there was one person who dreaded the sound of Anann’s song: a cruel old witch, who lived in a cave in the darkest corner of the wood. Her skin was wrinkled and bumpy as the twisted staff she carried, and her voice was hoarse as the screeching of an old crow. When the witch heard Anann singing as she passed through the trees, she scowled with jealousy. “I’ll put a curse on that foolish girl,” she muttered, “and she’ll never sing a single note again!”

One stormy night, the witch put on her cloak and hobbled up to the front door of the cottage where Anann and her mother lived. Three times she knocked, and Anann opened the door, wondering who would be visiting at such an hour.

“Excuse me, young lady,” the witch croaked, “may I please come inside? I am lost, and it’s so cold outside…”

“Let the poor woman in, Anann. She must be a traveler who got caught in the storm,” Anann’s mother called.

“Yes, mother,” Anann replied, and let the witch inside.

The old woman removed her cloak and leaned on her staff. “Dear, are you not the young woman who sings to the trees? I recognize your beautiful voice.”

“You do?” Anann blushed.

“Indeed, I do… and I wish never to hear it again!” The witch raised her staff, cackling, and surrounded the young maiden with a black cloud. Anann screamed… and was turned into a big, ugly raven!

The witch turned to Anann’s mother, who grabbed a knife and brandished it at the hag. “Return my daughter at once, witch!” she cried.

Sneering, the old woman struck Anann’s mother with a bolt of lightning, and she fell to the floor, dead.

Anann cried out, but her voice had become the squawk of the raven, hideous and fearsome. The witch raised her staff once more, and pointed it at her.

Just in time, Anann fled out the front door, flapping her wings as hard as she could. The witch’s lightning spell chased her out into the night.

She flew and flew, lost in the darkness of the storm, crying in grief. Though she knew this part of the woods well by day, she could see nothing through the rain. Finally, exhausted, she perched on the branch of a tree and fell asleep.

When she awoke, the sun had risen. Anann began to sing again, but despaired at the sound of her own voice, screeching and horrible. The more she tried, the more pitiful she sounded.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps from below. There was a man passing beneath the tree, a young man in fine clothes with a long cape of green. He looked up at Anann and smiled.

“Were you the one singing, raven?” he called. “I’ve heard there is a maiden with a beautiful voice who lives in this very forest. You must envy her.”

Anann was saddened to hear the young man’s words. The witch’s magic had worked, and she might never sing again.

“Still, I think you are very lucky to be a bird. You can fly as high as you like, and see the whole of the forest… and I might not find my way back to the city for days.”

Hearing this, Anann decided to help the young man. Perhaps her curse was not so terrible if she could put it to good use.

She spread her wings and took flight, soaring high above the trees. The view was more beautiful than anything she had seen before; she could see everything, from the edge of the forest to the city and the castle in the distance.

Anann returned to the young man, chirping and fluttering her feathers. She hopped from branch to branch, leading him toward the bridge to the city.

The man laughed, but he was grateful. “You are smarter than you look! Lead the way.”

The two travelled side by side, making their way through the woods. Through dense thickets and sunny clearings they passed, through fallen leaves and fresh green grasses, until they reached the river’s crossing. But they did not notice that the witch had been watching them.

When they arrived at the bridge, the old crone was waiting there. She looked up at the young man, leaning on her staff.

“Young man,” she croaked, “would you help a tired old woman make her way back home? I’ve been lost in the storm, and oh, how my bones ache…”

“Well, of course,” the man said. “I, too, am returning to the city, and I couldn’t have found my way out of the woods without my friend, the raven.”

The witch glanced at where Anann was perched on a branch and smiled wickedly. Anann was struck with fear. She could only imagine what horrible plans the witch might have in store for the poor man. She had to stop her!

With all her strength, Anann rushed at the hag and pecked at her eyes. She circled the old woman’s head, flapping and clawing, until the witch was so angered that she raised her staff and fired a bolt of lightning into the air.

“You’re a witch!” the young man gasped, drawing his sword.

The witch cursed, shaking her staff. “Draw your sword upon me, and I shall kill you where you stand!”

The two fought, spell pitted against sword, as Anann looked on in fear. The old woman was cunning, but she was soon outmatched by the limber and graceful lad. When she lifted her staff to summon a great storm, he plunged his sword into her heart, and she was slain.

With the witch’s death, the curse was broken, and Anann found herself human once again! The young man was shocked to see that the ugly raven had become a beautiful young woman.

“Are you the maiden of the forest?” he asked. “The girl who sings to the trees?”

“I am,” Anann answered. “My name is Anann. That evil witch killed my mother, and put a curse on me so that I might never sing again… but you have saved me.”

The young man smiled. “My lady, I am the prince of this land. I came to this forest in search of you, to find out if the rumors were true. Will you sing for me?”

Anann was shocked to hear it. The prince! Searching for her! But she obliged, and sang her song for him:

“ _Songbird, songbird, whist’ling in the tree_  
 _Songbird, won’t you come and sing to me?_  
 _Sing to me the music of the sky,_  
 _From your little home so very high_.”

As she sang, the prince was enraptured by her voice. “Anann,” he said, “your voice is as lovely as you are. Please, come with me to my palace! I want all the kingdom to hear your song.”

Anann accepted the prince’s offer, and her heart was filled with joy once again. The two returned to the castle together. Before long, they were wed, and the princess was known throughout the land as the beautiful songbird of the woods. And so it was, for the rest of their lives.

\---

It was the last page. Morrigan closed the book.

She flipped it over and examined the cover again. It was a well-crafted book for one carried by a traveling merchant- bound in rich green leather, with faded gold letters carved in. “Ten Tales for Children.”

The last story was one that appeared in most of the anthologies she had read over the years. Sometimes it was set in Orlais and the heroine was named Annette. Sometimes she became a crow or a jackdaw. In some, the girl had no mother. One variation even had the witch shapeshift into a lovely young maiden herself, hoping to seduce the prince.

But always, the witch was slain and the maiden became a princess.

Morrigan slid the book back into its place among the others. This tree had a large and convenient hole in its trunk, directly next to a branch that was wide and comfortable for sitting. It was her hiding place of choice for the collection she had accumulated.

Reading of the maiden-turned-raven had reminded her of what she was supposed to be doing: studying.

“Go and find a raven,” Mother had said, “and watch it. Watch how it walks, how it flies, how it hunts for food. You have to understand it, Morrigan, before you can become like it.”

Morrigan had found one of the birds, and had crept up behind it as silently as she was able, until she stepped on a twig. The raven broke for the sky, leading her to this tree again.

She peered down into the woods below. The only sound was the breeze.

With both hands, Morrigan swung herself down from the tree and into a pile of dead leaves. Mother would surely make her demonstrate what she had learned when she came home. She had best return to the task at hand.


	2. The Odd Noise

“Why are we stopping here?”

“This is Lothering, Alistair. We’re going to stock up on supplies and stay here for the night.”

“We’re going to be here all _day_?” Alistair dropped his end of the garment that the maid had been stitching and peered out the front of the carriage.

She shot him a cross look. “The day’s already half over, and I’m sure you’ll have a grand old time running around causing trouble while I’m mending the arlessa’s dress.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny.” Alistair pouted, but his eyes betrayed a smile.

Jenny shook her head, her frown breaking into a smile to match. “Oh, don’t give me that.” She folded up the dress, putting it to the side. “Come along, make yourself useful and let’s start unloading the other carriage.”

 Jenny was one of Alistair’s favorite maids, mostly because he was one of her favorites as well. She used to work as a cleaning girl in the kitchens, and always found a spare piece of cheese or cake for Alistair when he came running by. As of late she had been promoted, and tended personally to the arl and arlessa’s quarters and belongings. Apparently, she had been doing so well that they saw fit to bring her along on this trip.

She hustled Alistair out of the carriage, and he scurried ahead to the next one.

The arl and his wife were standing and stretching their legs as the other maid, Maura, flitted about grabbing bundles of traveling supplies. Some of them seemed to carry the telltale aroma of a young infant. That would be Connor- yes, the other little bundle cradled in Isolde’s arms.

“Anything we can take off your hands, Maura?” Jenny asked, catching up with Alistair.

Eamon glanced over, straightening his tunic. “Ah, there’s our little troublemaker,” he announced with a tempered smile. Isolde looked over her shoulder.

“He won’t be making any trouble today, ser,” Jenny answered. She lifted one of the bags piled in the back of the carriage, testing its weight, and handed it over to Alistair. It was light, but it was almost as big as he was.

Alistair stumbled beneath its mass. “Where are we going to stay, Arl Eamon?”

“There’s an inn here with some decent private rooms, I believe.” The arl tapped his chin in contemplation. Isolde glanced around the dusty village, her lip curling slightly.

“In fact,” Eamon continued, “we don’t need to bring everything in just yet. We’ll have someone take care of it after we’re settled in. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, love?”

The arlessa sighed through her nose. “Yes, let us lie down for a while. And see if they can prepare a light meal for us.” She bounced Connor, who was beginning to stir.

“I’ll see what I can do. Come along and let’s make the arrangements.” Eamon stepped out of the carriage, offering his hand to Isolde, who hopped gingerly onto the ground.

“Do I put this back?” Alistair asked Jenny, barely able to see over the large bag in his arms.

The arl chortled. “Alistair, why don’t you… run along and play for a bit. I think we’ve got everything taken care of here.”

Jenny reclaimed the sack from Alistair and placed it among the others again. She shot him a look over her shoulder: affectionate, but mildly accusatory.

Alistair frowned. “I thought you said-”

“The arl and arlessa are tired, Alistair,” Jenny whispered, taking him aside. “They’re going to want you out of their hair for a bit. Go and have your fun. Just don’t wander too far from the village.” She sent him off with a firm pat on the back, and followed the rest of the entourage into the inn.

Lothering. It was the first real town Alistair could recall visiting, other than Redcliffe. Not as big, but a bit greener in the summer air. There were a few villagers milling about, leaning against the side of a house and gossiping, or pulling a cart of vegetables over the little bridge. No children to be seen, though.

He set out in the direction of the bridge. On the other side there was a walled-in chantry with a chanter standing outside reciting the usual verses, some more houses, an old man sitting against a fence and yelling at passersby…

“Found you!” a voice shouted from behind him.

Alistair turned around. There was a little moppet of a girl standing there, plainly dressed, her hair sticking up in a ponytail that bobbed up and down as she bounced on her toes. She looked only a bit younger than himself.

Upon seeing his face, the girl’s eyes widened. “Oh… never mind. You’re not… I thought you were somebody I knew.”

“Who were you looking for?” Alistair asked.

“We’re playing hide and seek.” The girl cast her eyes around the village behind him, evidently not wanting to miss any small movements. “I thought you were this boy Harold. You have almost the same hair…” she said, although she seemed a bit unsure now.

Alistair shrugged. “Can I play with you? My name’s Alistair.”

“Okay. I’m Bethany,” she answered, offering a little hand. He shook it. “Where are you from? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Redcliffe.  We’re just passing through for the night.”

“Ohhh, Redcliffe! That’s far, isn’t it?”

Alistair scratched his head. “I don’t know. We’ve been on the road for four days.”

Bethany’s eyes widened with a guarded curiosity. “Where are you going?”

“Uh, Denerim.” Alistair didn’t want to get too much into this conversation. First he’d have to explain about the arl, and the baby, and no, he was just a stable boy who stowed away, and…

“Wow, you’re lucky. I’ve never been out of Lothering.” Bethany glanced in the direction of the Imperial Highway for a moment, then shook her head. “Come on, you can help me find the others.”

“How many others are there?”

“There’s four. Harold, Allison, Peaches, and my brother Carver. He’s really loud, so we might find him first. Let’s look over here,” Bethany called, heading toward the northern end of the chantry.

Alistair somewhat disliked being around chantries, especially with the mildly disapproving gaze of the templar at the door hanging over him. Bethany, too, seemed to tread more lightly, almost keeping to the wall to avoid being seen. But, he supposed, it was wise to be stealthy when hunting for the hiders.

The two hopped along the stones on the riverbank, made it to the rear wall and peered around the corner. The sisters and brothers of the chantry were tending the garden, sprinkling water on the sun-dried plants, but there was no sign of the objective.

Then, from the woods behind them, a snapping sound. Alistair turned around.

It wasn’t much, but for half a second, he swore he saw a silhouette disappearing behind a tree. He looked at Bethany, whose arms were crossed in frustration.

“If that’s Carver, he’s got it coming.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted: “Is someone there? Come out of there! You’re not supposed to go in the woods!”

There was no response.

Bethany frowned. “…Maybe it was just an animal.”

“No, it was too big. I saw it.” Alistair jumped down the little bank between the chantry and the woods. “Let’s go look.”

“You’re going in there?”

“It’s not very far in. You could still see the chantry just fine from there.”

“You go ahead, then… I’ll stay and watch.” Bethany folded her arms again, glancing nervously behind her.

The tree in question was several yards down the river and just thick enough to hide a medium-sized child. The woods here weren’t too thick just yet; it was a few miles north of what could be considered the true beginning of the southern forests. Alistair stepped carefully between the rocks and fallen branches, trying not to make too much noise, but he was no master of stealth.

When he reached the tree and walked in a circle around it, there was no one there save for a brown caterpillar inching up the trunk.

He looked back in the direction from which he had come; Bethany was a little shadow bouncing against the backdrop of the rear of the chantry, framed by the forest’s canopy.

Another sound came from close by, a bit deeper in and further from the burbling river. Alistair didn’t catch a glimpse of it this time, but it sounded like it could be a person. He looked over at Bethany again and took a few steps toward it.

When he was close, he broke into a dash and swung around the other side of the tree. There was a girl there. A plump girl in peasant’s clothes, with red-blonde ringlets springing from her head in all directions.

“Who are you? You weren’t playing.” She looked rather annoyed at being caught.

“I am now. I’m Alistair.” Alistair looked back over his shoulder again. “Bethany said you’re not supposed to go in the woods.”

“I wasn’t here all along! I was… behind the chantry, but then I heard you two coming and I had nowhere else to go, so…”

“Well, we’ve found you now. Which one are you?” Alistair bit his lip. “I mean, what’s your name?”

“It’s-”

“Peaches!” Bethany accused, picking her way through the fallen leaves (and tripping over her skirt twice.)

The girl called Peaches pouted. “Bethany, he’s not allowed to help you look! That’s not fair!”

“It’s not fair to hide in the _woods_ , either,” Bethany retorted, straightening her skirt. “We told you last time it’s against the rules.”

“Well, we’re even then.” Peaches sniffed.

A tree branch shook overhead, which made Bethany jump.

“L-let’s go back now,” she said. “Mother says it’s not safe out here.”

Peaches looked up and scoffed. “It’s just a bird.”

“We need to go back anyway. Let’s-”

There were loud footsteps coming from behind them. “There you are,” a voice grumbled.

It was a boy about Alistair’s age; skinny, and by his coloring and the way he was addressing Bethany, likely the brother she had mentioned.

Sure enough: “Carver,” Bethany called him. “You’re _supposed_ to hide.”

“You’re _supposed_ to stay in the town,” he retorted. “I _was_ hiding, but you walked right past me, and then I saw you going over here. And who’s this?”

“I’m Alistair,” Alistair offered helpfully.

“All right. Now come back, Bethany. If you get eaten by wolves, Mother and Father are going to kill me. To say nothing of-”

“We were already going back.” Bethany bowed her fingers, checking her surroundings for the alleged wolves.

“You too, Peaches,” Carver ordered. Apparently, he could take or leave Alistair. Peaches gave a compliant nod.

The tree branch overhead rustled again. Alistair looked up, but he couldn’t see the bird that Peaches had mentioned. Going by the sudden shaking of the branch next to it, it must be doing quite a bit of moving around.

Carver grabbed Bethany by the arm. “Let’s go.”

As if on cue, the bird came swooping down from the tree and hopping about madly with little squawks. Its feathers were black and disheveled- like a raven’s, maybe, but smaller.

Peaches screamed and ran for the chantry. Bethany followed quickly, walking backward, her face twisted with alarm.

It was down to Alistair, the bird, and Carver, who was backing away with his hand hovering in front of him as if holding an invisible weapon, and kept looking back and forth between the other two. With a great and clumsy flapping, the bird resumed its perch overhead.

“…It _is_ just a bird,” Alistair pointed out.

Carver was squinting past him at the tree above. All at once, there was a very loud noise and a frantic creaking of branches. Alistair turned to look, and-

The branch was still swaying, but the bird was gone. A few black feathers, however, were fluttering to the ground.

Alistair looked back at Carver. “Hey, what just-” he began. The other boy was running like mad toward the village. Well, so much for that.

The strange noises and happenings were a bit creepy, he supposed, but nothing to get so worked up about. What did these kids think was out here? Trolls? Witches? Darkspawn? He picked up one of the fallen feathers, turned it over a few times, then shrugged and started back toward the chantry.

Someone snickered.

The little hairs on the back of Alistair’s neck stood up as he turned around. Nothing in the tree… but two of the limbs were creaking, swaying in a way that couldn’t be attributed to the breeze even on a windy day.

_Okay. Leaving now, for real this time._ Alistair turned toward the village again, and- _CRASH!_

There was a child-sized lump of black and brown lying beneath the tree, folded up in a pile of leaves.

The lump straightened itself up, brushed itself off somewhat. It had yellow, owlish eyes, staring at Alistair with unreadable intent.

“Um-” Alistair began.

It ran its fingers through its hair, dislodging several feathers. “Hello,” the… thing, person, girl said.

“…Hi,” Alistair said back.


	3. The Inquisitive Visitor

The boy stared, scratching his head. “Er… where’d it go?”

“The raven, you mean?” Morrigan tried, for a moment, to contain her smirk. She gave up, stretching her arms behind her back. “’Tis gone.”

 “…Oh.” The boy briefly glanced up at the canopy of trees, then his gaze settled on Morrigan again. Clearly, he was still confused.

Morrigan had not intended for things to turn out this way. This was the farthest she had ever traveled from home, the closest she had ever come to a true human settlement. She had wanted only to playfully taunt the children playing in the woods, inconspicuous in raven form… but she was still somewhat clumsy as a bird… and then she had lost her grip on the spell.

Now she was face-to-face with a real, live boy, and she was covered in feathers and leaves. She could see that he was about to ask another question.

“Were you hiding, too? We should, uh, really go back now. You’re Allison, right?”

Morrigan opened her mouth to speak, then looked away. “No.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I am… not.”

“Are you one of the other kids from the village?” The boy raised an eyebrow, questioning.

So many questions, and Morrigan had no lies prepared with which to answer. And she couldn’t tell him the truth… could she? Would he alert the templars and bring an angry, pitchfork-wielding mob all the way through the forest to Flemeth’s shack? Mother would be most cross with her.

Well, that aside, she could hardly pretend she was one of them.

“No. I have never _been_ to this… village.”

“Never…” the boy began. He was still gawking at her disheveled hair and dirty hands. “Well, neither have I… until today, anyway. I’m just visiting. What’s your name? I’m Alistair.”

Alistair. He was a little shorter than her, looked a bit younger. His hair was cut short, a coppery blonde, and he wore the simple clothes of a peasant. Looked better-fed than one, though. And sounded… friendly, if apprehensive. He was even half-holding out his hand; it hovered awkwardly between them. Morrigan bit her lip.

“My name is…” She hesitated. But there was no point in lying, was there? “…Morrigan.”

She stared at his offered hand, and he sheepishly retracted it.

“ _Morrigan_?” Alistair asked, not hiding his skepticism. He looked as if it tasted strange in his mouth when he said it. Morrigan narrowed her eyes at him.

“Okay, _Morrigan_.” He kept emphasizing the name; he was humoring her lie, or so he seemed to think. “So… what are you doing out here?”

He looked back over his shoulder. Back to the village, where the other children had run off. Maybe they were wondering why he hadn’t come back.

Morrigan, with an impish grin, leaned against a tree. If he wasn’t going to believe what she said, then she might as well be honest. “I live here.”

Alistair frowned. “But you just said-”

“Not here, near the village.” Morrigan gestured out at the forest behind her. “I live in the woods, with my mother. We live farther out.”

“You…” Alistair’s eyes followed her motion. “Why do you live in the _woods?_ Are you- oh, are you one of those… Wilders?” He stepped back as he considered the idea.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. It would be as good an answer as any, if he believed it; but her, a Chasind? She… well, actually, she had never seen a young Chasind girl.

Part of her was tempted to simply come out with the truth now, to turn into her bird form again and fly about him, pecking at his ankles and face. It was always fun to tease the templars when they wandered too close to her and Mother’s home, and watch them flee in terror when Mother unleashed her most powerful magic upon them. She might not need or want to tear this boy apart, but he seemed the type that would be fun to spook.

But simply speaking with him… this was not something she had yet done. And besides that, he hadn’t been scared off as easily as the other children had before.

“Why are _you_ asking _me_ so many questions? What of yourself? What are _you_ doing in this forest… Alistair?” Morrigan folded her arms, smiling slyly as she advanced upon him.

He appeared offended at the sudden turnaround. Alistair held his ground. “What? You were watching us.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

“From the tree! You were, er, hiding up there, or- whatever you were doing. You saw we were playing hide and seek,” Alistair huffed.

“But why here?” She peered beyond him, to the little opening in the woods where the river met the town. “Is this village so small that your friends could find nowhere else to hide?”

“I don’t know! They’re not my friends. I just met them. And now I’ll probably never see them again.” He looked cross, but more so about her questioning than the missed opportunity to befriend the village children.

Looking down at the ground, Morrigan stepped away from the boy, idly kicking up leaves as she walked. She paused, contemplating, before choosing a nearby tree with a suitable nook and hoisting herself up all at once to sit in it. Alistair appeared a bit startled at her agility.

“Then tell me why you came here to begin with. What is here in this village that you-” she paused, unsure- “…Why are you ‘visiting’?”

Alistair explained with a shade of annoyance, as if he were already tired of telling the story: “We’re on our way to Denerim. Me and… well, the arl and arlessa were going, and I… We’re stopping here for the night,” he finished all at once, his ears turning red.

Morrigan’s face lit up with curious delight. “The arl and arlessa?”

It had been clear as Alistair rushed past that part of the story that he hoped she wouldn’t inquire further. But, of course, it was the most interesting part.

“Those are noble titles. Are you a noble?” Morrigan covered her grin with her fingers.

Alistair shook his head. “No, no, I’m not. No, I just… I’m just a stable boy, and, well, I… snuck onto the servants’ carriage,” he mumbled as quickly as possible. “I wanted to go with them to Denerim, but the arlessa didn’t want me to come along, so…”

Morrigan couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“A-anyway, enough about me… Do you want to see if we can find the others? Maybe you can play with us. We’ll have to stay in the village, though.” The boy glanced over his shoulder again; it seemed he was anxious about being away for so long, and eager to change the subject.

The village, full of more people than Morrigan had yet seen in her life, and now she was presented with the idea of actually entering it. She was no fool; she knew she would instantly be identified as an outsider by her unusual clothes and her untamed hair, and there would be templars. The other children would bombard her with the same questions Alistair had, and more. Mother would not be pleased with her if she knew, to put it mildly.

It was tempting, but… she could not do it. At least, not in human form. But Alistair was already turning to go.

“ _I_ have another idea,” Morrigan announced.

Alistair stopped, turning back to look at her. His brow was furrowed.

“We could stay here, and you could…” She considered the term “play,” and decided against it. She hardly had any idea what sort of game they would play. “…I could show you the forest.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m not supposed to, um, go too far from the village, and-”

“We won’t, then.” Morrigan slid down from her perch, twigs crunching beneath her feet as she landed. “I know my way here. And you could follow this river back to town, could you not? It goes around those hills.” She shrugged to the right of the direction from which he had come.

“But… oh, fine,” Alistair sighed. “But I can’t stay too long! I should probably be back before dark, or- hey, wait up!”

Morrigan was already following the trail she had taken to get here. It had been easier to follow as a bird, flitting above the treetops, but it wasn’t much of a challenge on foot either. At least she had had the foresight to put on her boots before leaving, and the trees here were rather sparse compared to those deep in the Wilds.

“So why do you live in the woods, anyway? You never said!” Alistair scurried to catch up. “Are you really Chasind?”

Morrigan screwed her eyes shut as she walked. “Have you ever _seen_ one of the Chasind?”

“N-not in person, no. But I’ve seen pictures! Of the barbarians. They’re awful scary-looking.  _You’re_ not that scary, though.” He said the last bit like a challenge.

“Is that so?” Morrigan clenched her fists, smirking; this wasn’t visible to Alistair, who was still trailing behind her.

“Not really,” he answered. “It was a little bit scary when you fell out of the tree, I suppose, but I thought maybe you were a… I don’t know, a bear, or something-”

Seized with laughter, Morrigan had to stop in her tracks. Alistair nearly bumped into her.

“Hey! What’s so funny?”

“A _bear_? You took me for a _bear?_ ” She forced the words out between giggles. “You have never seen a bear, either, have you?”

“Actually, I have! I don’t know… I wasn’t really thinking of a bear, I guess, just- something. Something big and scary that you’d find in the woods. Not that you’re that big, either.” The boy folded his arms, mildly flushed with embarrassment.

“Neither are you,” Morrigan answered, looking pointedly at the top of his head. There was little difference between them, but she had the advantage of about an inch.

Alistair scowled.

“You are the one who mentioned it. You are younger than I, are you not?” Morrigan resumed walking, stepping carefully between rocks and tree-roots.

“I’m eight. How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“Why don’t you answer questions like a normal person? It’s kind of rude, you know.”

“You ask so many!” Morrigan shot him a look. “ _Why this, why that?_ ”

“I’m just curious! It’s not every day you see a girl fall out of a tree… and a bird… hey, you never told me what happened with that bird.”

She pursed her lips. “Nothing _happened_.”

“What do you mean, nothing happened? It was making such a racket, swooping down at us, and it didn’t see you up there? No, it must have. And you were covered in feathers! Still have a few, actually. There’s one right-”

Morrigan swatted his hand away. “Never you mind!”

“Sor- _ry_ ,” Alistair grumbled. “But you have to admit it’s strange.”

She wasn’t planning on admitting to anything. This boy might not be as cowardly as the others, but he was still… well, not like her. And, as Mother had told her so many times: “ _They fear us, Morrigan. They hate that which they cannot comprehend, and they want nothing more than to see us destroyed._ ”

As they passed beneath a particularly tall tree, Morrigan stopped.

She glanced between its branches, assessing its potential, before grabbing one of the lower limbs and swinging herself onto it.

“Hey!” Alistair shouted up at her. “Are we going up there?”

Morrigan looked out at the forest ahead. The terrain sloped downward from here, descending into the Wilds from whence she had come. It would take at least another hour’s travel by flight in this direction to reach Flemeth’s hut. On foot, it would take even longer.

“Come up,” she called down at the boy. “We should be able to see far from here.”

She grabbed a small knot protruding from the tree to hoist herself up. Alistair, however, was having trouble getting off the ground; his feet slipped against the trunk, finding no purchase against the bark. Morrigan sighed, reached down, and yanked him by the arm to her level.


	4. The First Farewell

“Wow. I’ve never been up this high before!” Alistair exclaimed.

“You must not climb many trees.” The girl was perched on a branch a bit above his; her rough-stitched dress fluttered in the breeze.

“And _you_ do, obviously.”

“I do.” Morrigan sounded pleased with herself.

Alistair shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position. He was nestled fairly securely in the crook between trunk and limb, but it was a bit of an awkward angle, and when he looked down at the distance between himself and the ground, his toes curled. If he could just not think about the enormous height… the view was rather nice.

“Hm,” he heard from above.

He looked up at Morrigan, who swung her feet up to sit cross-legged.

“A stable boy… so you must tend to this arl’s… horses, I suppose?”

“Yeah, most of the time,” Alistair answered. “Usually I help… _clean out_ the stables-” he made an awful face- “or, you know, feed the horses, brush them… things like that. I just help the older stablehands. And sometimes the other servants.”

Morrigan peered down at him, apprehensive. “Why?”

“Why what? Why do I help them?”

“Why do you do all of this in the first place?” Her brow furrowed. “It sounds like nothing I would wish to do.”

“Oh. Well, I… The arl took me in after my mother died, so… I have to earn my keep, you know? I-It’s not that bad, really. He’s very nice.”

“What of your father? He died as well, then?”

Of all the questions, she had to ask that one. Alistair crossed his arms, frowning up at her. “You’re not supposed to just _ask_ someone that! What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

She returned his frown. “Why should I not ask?”

“Because it’s personal!” he huffed. “But I guess I shouldn’t expect any manners from _you_ , living in the woods and all…”

“Hmph! You think I am some… uncivilized barbarian?” The branch above shook violently as Morrigan made some grand gesture of indignation.

“Well, no… not really,” he conceded. “You definitely don’t _sound_ like one! You talk kind of… funny.”

There was a brief silence.

“…and you accuse me of having no manners?” Morrigan scoffed.

“I don’t mean it like that! It’s just, well, I’ve never heard anyone talk like you do. It’s very, uh… fancy? Does everyone out here, I mean, where you live-”

She cut him off. “No. ‘Tis only my mother and I.”

“Huh.”

The wind picked up, filling the silence with the rustling of leaves and the creaking of branches. As summer neared its end, the most distant trees were beginning to turn brown, and the air was just a bit cooler than it had been. In the shady spot high in the tree where the two were perched, it was almost chilly. Morrigan drew her knees up and curled into a ball.

When the breeze passed, Alistair stood up- very cautiously. He grabbed the branch overhead, steadying himself, then rose to his feet. Morrigan watched him, her expression hidden behind her knees.

“So,” he said, turning to look at her, “you’ve really lived out here all your life?”

“So you assume.” She lifted her head to smirk at him.

This girl was incredibly frustrating. She wouldn’t give a straight answer, yet it seemed no question was off-limits for her to ask. Alistair really should have gone back with the other kids from the village, started a new game of hide-and-seek. In fact, he still could… but, strange as she might be, Alistair remained curious.

“But… yes, I have.” Morrigan stood up as well, far more easily than he had. She looked out at the forest ahead. “We _have_ moved from place to place a few times, but only within the Wilds.”

Alistair followed her gaze. “How far?”

She pointed directly ahead. “Do you see that hill, the one with the blackened tree at the top?”

Beyond the expanse of trees below them, growing thicker and thicker as it stretched to the south, there was indeed a hill topped with such a tree. Its jagged, black limbs cut a menacing figure against the sky.

“Wow. You came that far out?”

“Farther. Our home is on the other side of it.” Morrigan shifted, pointing to the right. “Before, we lived far beyond those hills. We moved several years ago.”

“Does your… mother know you’re all the way out here?” Alistair asked, incredulous.

In response, Morrigan shrugged. “I did not tell her.” She was trying to look nonchalant, but the curve of her mouth betrayed just a hint of worry.

Before Alistair could comment, something caught Morrigan’s eye in the forest below.

She crouched down, gripping the branch she was standing on. “Look there! ‘Tis a cave, I think. Shall we look?”

“I…” Alistair looked down. Climbing up so high had been nerve-wracking enough; he hadn’t even given any thought to coming down again. Morrigan, however, was already swinging herself downward with hardly a moment’s hesitation.

She looked up at him expectantly.

“Er… I’m not sure how to get down from here,” he admitted.

Morrigan laughed at him, rolling her eyes. “Just follow me.”

\---

It was difficult, and Alistair would swear later he nearly fell to his death at least once, but he did manage to make it to the bottom. He had no idea how Morrigan could hop from branch to branch with such confidence. She didn’t even seem to fear heights.

Now, she was leading him toward the cave she had spotted, nestled in the side of a small bank. The entrance was partially buried by leaves and branches, and draped with roots. He was surprised she had seen it from so high; he could hardly distinguish it from any pile of debris in the woods, even this close. Morrigan strode right up to it and toed away the fallen foliage.

“You- hey, are you sure there’s nothing… living in there?” he yelled after her as he caught up.

“‘Tis all covered in leaves. I think nothing has been in here for some time.”

“Okay, but if some… bear or giant spider comes out at you, I’m not-”

At that moment, Morrigan yelped, leaping back several feet from the opening.

Alistair jumped. “What-”

He paused. Morrigan was shaking with giggles.

“-oh. Ha, ha, very funny,” he grumbled.

“You are awfully paranoid,” the girl commented, reaching down to push the hanging roots aside. “You truly think a bear could fit in a hole so small?”

“I don’t know! Maybe a small bear.”

“Well, ‘twould be no threat to us, then.” Morrigan bent down to enter the cavern. Alistair, despite his apprehension, followed… slowly.

Inside, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves hung in the air. It was a rather small space after all; it didn’t widen much beyond the entrance, and Alistair’s hair brushed the ceiling of it when he stood up straight.  The ground was dotted with clusters of white mushrooms.

While there clearly wasn’t any room in here for anything large enough to eat him, he was still hesitant to touch anything. Morrigan, on the other hand, was already rooting about in earnest; she tugged at vines and turned over stones without a second thought.

“Are you looking for something?” Alistair scratched his neck.

She tossed a branch aside. “There is bound to be _something_ interesting here.” A few seconds later, she found an item that met her criteria.

“Hmm…” Morrigan held it up. It was… a skull.

It looked old, worn away by time and exposure; it was a dull brownish-grey, and a chunk of it was missing. As for the rest of the skeleton… well, it had to be around here somewhere.

Morrigan seemed annoyed at Alistair’s look of alarm. “What? ‘Tis only a skull.”

“Yes, I can see that, thank you!” He stepped backward.

“Well, whatever killed this person is obviously long gone. There is no need to be so frightened.”

“I don’t see any need to go poking around caves full of bones, either!” he exclaimed, glancing outside. “Is this something you do often?”

“There are bones about in the Wilds. Human, animal… ‘Tis not strange to see them.” She cast her gaze about the cavern, as if searching for more.

“Well, we’ve had a good look at it. Now can we go somewhere else?” Alistair complained.

Morrigan gave the skull one last appraising look, then tossed it aside and stood up. “Very well…”

\---

“So tell me of this arl and arlessa. They must live in a great castle, yes?” Morrigan’s eyes were alight with fascination.

She kept returning to this subject. Alistair didn’t know what to make of it; he rarely met anyone who wasn’t at least somewhat familiar with the arl. But… he supposed it was natural enough for one who had lived in the woods all their life to be curious about such things.

“Yeah, they live in a castle… It’s pretty nice, I guess.” He stretched his arms. “Very fancy, lots of servants and all of that. The arl has a big estate in Denerim, too; we’re going to stay there when we get there.”

“You have been to this estate before?” Morrigan wondered.

“Plenty of times.”

They passed by a large fallen tree trunk, which Alistair immediately felt the urge to climb. Quickly, he paced around its perimeter, before finding a suitable foothold and hoisting himself up. Morrigan, with far more grace, hopped up behind him.

With arms outstretched for balance, he continued as he walked the length of the tree: “Arl Eamon used to take me with him to Denerim every winter. But since he’s married Isolde- that’s the arlessa- she, well, I think she doesn’t like me very much.”

“And why is that?” Morrigan asked as she followed.

“She- thinks it’s ‘inappropriate’ for him to be so nice to me. Since I’m just a servant’s son, and, well…” He trailed off.

When he turned around, she was still expecting an answer, eyebrow raised.

“…and there are rumors that he’s actually my father. Because he does all that,” he finished.

Morrigan turned away and hopped down from the log.

She led the way; they continued in the direction they had been going before. For a moment, she was silent, with her hands clasped behind her back.

“Is he your father?” she asked.

“No!” Alistair shook his head, even though she wasn’t looking. “Definitely not.”

“You’re certain?” Morrigan asked, surprised. She turned and began walking backwards. “You did not wish to discuss your father earlier. Do you know who he is?”

“Why do you have to keep asking about that?!”

“I do not know who _my_ father is. You are awfully sensitive about the subject.” She shrugged.

“Well, he’s not the arl, that’s for sure. The arl has a son of his own now, and…”

A small object caught Alistair’s eye on the ground. It was off-white, no bigger than his finger, and nestled between the thick roots of a tree. He bent down and picked it up.

Morrigan looked on with curiosity. “What do you have there?”

“It’s…” Alistair examined it more closely.

It was long and triangular in shape, with small notches cut into the sides. At its base, there was some sort of swooping, curving design carved in, and filled in with some shimmering, metallic material. Of course! It was-

“An arrowhead,” Morrigan finished, taking it from his hands. “Hmm. I have not seen one like this before.”

“You think it’s Chasind?” Alistair asked.

She turned it over to examine the other side. “Perhaps… or it could be Dalish. Their clans pass through these woods on occasion.”

“Really! Dalish.” He grinned. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Morrigan traced the carved design with her finger. “This is made of bone.” She looked up, smirking. “And you were so squeamish before!”

“That’s different! You know that was different. That was a _skull!”_ Alistair protested. Morrigan, in response, only threw back her head and giggled.

“Let me see it again.” Alistair reached out to take the arrowhead back.

The carving reached halfway across its surface, and resembled a sprouting vine. Two parallel lines, one thick and one thin, connected to the blunt end.

“‘Tis pretty, is it not?” Morrigan stood on tiptoe, peering over his shoulder.

“Yeah...”

He held it out in the sunlight, and watched it shimmer. Morrigan appeared especially enraptured by this display.

Alistair handed it back to her. “Here, why don’t you take it?”

The way she grabbed it, hasty and excited, reminded him of the way the hounds in Redcliffe would look when he gave them a scrap of meat. Of course, the scraps he passed along to them were usually scraps that _he_ had received from the maids in the kitchen. He thought himself very generous to do so.

Morrigan was delighted; he hoped she wouldn’t try to lick him. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to have any such plans. She slipped the trinket into some unseen pocket between her dress and shawl.

“There must be other things around here,” she declared, twirling around to search the area.

By now, the sun had begun its descent toward the horizon; its light was shining into Alistair’s eyes, and casting long shadows from the trees. He frowned.

“Maybe we should start heading back… before it gets too late. I should be back before dusk.”

Morrigan ceased her search. “Oh.”

She sounded disappointed, but pointed him northward all the same. “This way, then. We ought to make it back to the village before too long.”

\---

For most of the journey back, she probed him further about his life at the castle. Well, the questions were not so much about him as they were about the arl and arlessa. Morrigan seemed to have a keen fascination with nobility. It was a bit odd, but then, Alistair didn’t know exactly what he would have expected from someone who had had so little contact with the outside world.

“And are there paintings?”

“Yes, quite a few,” he said.

Morrigan stared into space, contemplating the ostentation of it all. “Wow,” she murmured. “Can you imagine what it must be like? Having portraits of yourself, hanging all throughout your home?”

“Well, I can… I don’t know. I think it might be weird.” Alistair jumped over a large rock jutting out from the ground. “Seeing my face looking back at me every time I turn a corner… It’s strange enough already.”

“Perhaps we should switch places, then,” Morrigan laughed.

“Yeah, you can go to Redcliffe and sleep in the hayloft, and I’ll… no, I really don’t want to live in the Wilds. Sorry.”

She sighed. “I do not blame you for that.”

They reached the spot where they had first run into each other. The tree from which Morrigan had fallen.

“Well…” Alistair turned to face Morrigan. She looked down, rubbing the toe of her boot on the ground.

“…Thanks for showing me around the woods. It was fun,” Alistair continued.

“You are welcome,” Morrigan answered. She avoided making eye contact.

“Um,” he attempted, “it was nice meeting you.” As he had when they met, he held out his hand to her; this time, she actually offered hers in return. She did not, however, seem very familiar with the premise of a handshake. He shook her limp hand up and down once before letting go.

Morrigan cleared her throat. “Yes,” she concluded. “‘Twas nice to meet you, Alistair. Good luck on your journey.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of the two were quite sure how to end the conversation. In the end, Morrigan simply nodded, and Alistair excused himself: “Well, goodbye.”

He walked back toward the opening in the forest behind the chantry. When he turned to look back, there was no hint of Morrigan’s presence. She disappeared into the forest as easily as any of its creatures.


	5. The Southern Wind

Morrigan had not yet mastered it, but the form of the raven was already her favorite by far. She had scurried about as a mouse, stalked the woods as a wolf, and yet nothing compared to spreading her wings and soaring above the treetops.

Casting the transformation spell was like putting on a cloak: she summoned forth the magic, wrapped it around herself, and felt it settle against her as it seeped into her bones. It became a little easier each time she did it, though it required a great deal of magical energy and concentration to maintain.

After a quick look back to ensure that the boy was really gone, she folded herself up in the spell and broke for the sky.

She beat her wings, flapping higher and higher, until the woods lay out like a map before her. Up here, the air was cooler, and Morrigan could navigate quickly to wherever she wished to go… but she wasn’t in any hurry to get home. She took wing on the breeze.

Morrigan glided over the burned hill that marked her and Flemeth’s corner of the forest. When she landed, she was beneath her tree, the one with the hollow in its trunk.

She fluttered to a halt, relaxing the tension in her body, letting the spell dissolve.

While it had the advantages of storage space and comfortable seating, this tree was a challenging climb. Its bark was smooth and had only one small knot protruding as a foothold; she had to cling to the trunk and shimmy up like a snake. Of course, she had perfected the act with countless repetitions. No one else was like to try.

When she reached her cache of hidden treasures, Morrigan took the arrowhead out of her pocket. The silvery inlay shimmered faintly in the orange glow of the setting sun. She placed it among her other fragments and findings. It was among the best of them- perhaps even better than the ring with the malachite stone. Morrigan had found that one several months ago, discarded among the fallen leaves, dirty and tarnished but still intact. Her fingers were still too small for it to fit her, even on her thumb.

It was tempting to linger and reread another chapter from one of her books, but Flemeth would already be wondering where she was. Frowning, Morrigan resumed her raven form and took flight for home.

\---

“Ah, I see you’ve decided to come home after all.”

Morrigan felt Flemeth’s disapproving eyes upon her as she entered. She looked up- Mother was reclined on her bed, an empty dish and spoon in her lap. At least she was smiling; Flemeth’s smile was unsettling in its own way, but better that than her scowl.

“Hello, Mother,” Morrigan answered as she headed for the pot over the fireplace.

“Your supper’s gone cold. Good thing you arrived before I threw it to the wolves!” Flemeth laughed.

Morrigan lifted the lid and inspected the contents. A light broth, pieces of wild onion and green herbs floating to the top, and some sort of meat at the bottom.

“I doubt the wolves would want any of this.” She grabbed her empty dish from the hearth and ladled it full of soup.

“Perhaps you should hunt with them, then. You _will_ have to feed yourself one day.” Flemeth stretched, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up.

Mother was beautiful today. Her hair hung down loose, all the way to her waist, with only a few strands of grey to betray her age. Her lips were stained violet, and she wore a low-cut garment that draped loosely across her chest. All this could mean only one thing: she had had… company earlier today. Or was going to tonight. Morrigan hoped it was the former.

Flemeth turned to face her. “Running around in the woods all day, and you don’t even bring anything home to your mother, hmm? You ought to be making yourself useful.”

“I practiced my forms.” Morrigan hopped up and took a seat on an overturned crate beside the fireplace. Her feet didn’t quite reach the ground. “I was a raven, and I flew all the way up and saw the whole of the woods.”

“And what did you find, hm? More trees?”

To avoid meeting Flemeth’s gaze, Morrigan turned up her soup bowl and drank. The broth was good, even cold- with her stomach tied up with nerves and excitement, she hadn’t realized how hungry she had been until now.

When she looked up from the bowl, Flemeth was still looking at her with narrowed eyes.

“There is only so much to be learned from flapping about in the treetops, girl.” Mother approached, sauntering slowly as she always did, and leaned against the end of the wall that divided the room. “Ha! But I suppose children will play. Enjoy it while you can… and be cautious.”

She turned away and descended the stairs to the cellar. Morrigan was relieved.

Flemeth’s words rarely left her at ease. Sometimes it seemed Mother just… knew things. But if she suspected Morrigan had strayed too close to civilization, at least she hadn’t pressed the issue.

Morrigan drank down her cold soup in silence. The only sound from the cellar was the creaking of the steps as Mother went down, down… and then nothing. Whatever she did down there, she did quietly.

As the wind picked up outside, the whole house groaned. Flemeth and Morrigan’s hut was built tall, the upper levels held up with spindly wooden shafts, and when storms came, the whole place could shake so violently that Morrigan swore it would topple over. But, of course, it never did. Flemeth surely had some spell holding it together. There was a comforting aura of magic inside the hut- even on the coldest nights, Morrigan felt a warmth deep within herself.

When her bowl was empty, Morrigan replaced it on the shelf above the fireplace and pushed aside the pelt that covered the upward staircase. She ascended.

The climb was so steep that Morrigan had to bunch her dress up not to trip over it. The second floor, like the first, was one room- a large table in one corner, every inch of it piled with clutter, and the walls lined with shelves of more of the same. Stacks of old, stained tomes, and tiny animal skeletons, and rocks of all sizes, and pointed metal implements, and candles, and jars with mysterious, murky contents.

The first floor was kept relatively neat, and the second floor made up the difference. The third floor was split in two- at one side, a dressing room with a small washbasin and a chest of drawers, and at the other… Morrigan’s room.

It was a small room, containing little more than a small dresser and a bed. And, in truth, it was more of a nest than a bed: a tangle of furs and knitted blankets, topped with a few large, floppy pillows. There were no windows, but there was a door leading out to a tiny balcony.

Morrigan squeezed through the room and out the door, stepping out into the night.

The fence around the overlook was constructed of rough, uneven wooden boards, not suited to leaning. Still, Morrigan folded her arms across the slats and propped herself up. Her shawl fluttered in the breeze.

The day’s events were swimming in her head, one moment after another. Her toes curled with excitement as she remembered it. A boy… a real, live boy, not much younger than she, and he had spoken to her. And _she_ had spoken to _him._ And they had explored the woods, climbed trees, run and searched and laughed…

She lifted a hand and summoned lightning to her fingertips. Little bolts of electricity crackled between them. Part of her wished she could have shown the boy this side of herself as well. There were too many questions left unanswered; perhaps he suspected she was hiding something. Perhaps he simply accepted that she lived in the woods, alone, with only her mother. Or perhaps he was just a fool.

Morrigan sighed, slumping against the fence, and smiled into her folded arms.

The sky had grown dark by now. The sun was no longer visible, only the slightest purple halo of light illuminating the western edge of the sky. To the south, there was a bank of dark clouds on the horizon. There would be rain if they traveled northward.

Just then, the wind picked up, bringing a chill that left goosebumps on Morrigan’s arms. She retreated to her bedchamber. Her boots were pulled off and discarded on the floor, her hair pulled loose from its ponytail, and she collapsed into bed.

“ _Redcliffe Castle_ ,” she whispered to herself. A grand castle, with an arl and a lovely young arlessa. Winding hallways and countless rooms, filled with paintings and tapestries, enormous featherbeds, indoor washtubs, and mirrors large enough to see oneself from head to toe. Bookcases filled with books of all kinds, not crumbling tomes of ancient magic, but adventures and fables and romances. A table set with course after course of rich foods, expensive dishes from all across the land. Noble lords and ladies calling, knights in ornate armor, servants at their beck and call, cooks and maids and squires, and a stable boy named Alistair.

Morrigan rolled onto her side and curled up. It was all so wondrous to think of. Could it really be true? The first boy she had ever met, ward to an arl? But then again, it could scarcely be a lie, could it? If she were in his place, she could surely come up with a more interesting role than that of a stablehand. No, it had to be true. And right now, Alistair was with all the other servants, with the arl and arlessa. Morrigan tried to imagine what they might be doing. Relaxing by a fire, perhaps, wrapped in silken robes and velvet blankets, as the maids waited upon them hand and foot.

She had wrung as many details out of the boy as she could, and yet each answer he gave her only stoked her curiosity further. Before today, such things were only distant fantasies from storybooks; now, she had come so close, she could nearly reach out and touch the world she had so often dreamed about. There was so much more to discover, Morrigan knew it. Oh, to see it for herself!

A tremor ran through the house, and she was jolted from her reverie by a howl from the basement. It sounded like a man’s voice. Terrified panting, increasing in pitch, a strangled scream, and then- silence.

Morrigan groaned, burying her face in her pillows. Mother was at it again. Most likely, a group of Chasind hunters had passed too close to her territory, and Flemeth had chosen one for- well, whatever it was that she did with them, it always ended in screaming. At least, Morrigan hoped it had ended. Sometimes it seemed to go on for hours, and no matter how tightly she plugged her ears, she couldn’t keep it out.

She waited, eyes screwed shut, until the silence had gone on for so long that she was fairly sure it was over. Still, she could not relax. The wind howled outside, making the house shift and creak, and Morrigan lay in bed for hours with the same thoughts running through her mind: thoughts of running, leaping, taking flight and soaring beyond the border of the forest. In her dreams, she traveled to bustling cities, green farmlands, frozen mountain peaks. Anywhere but here.


	6. The Gathering Storm

Morning came, and with it came dark grey skies.

They were just visible through the tiny window above Alistair’s bedroll. He groaned and threw his arm over his eyes to block out the dim light, but the rest of the servants were already stirring.

He and the maids were bunked in a small, dusty garret room next to the arl and arlessa’s. They slept in the same bedrolls they had for the entirety of the journey so far, but at least they were inside- and there was plenty of heat rising from downstairs. There was just enough room for each of them to lie down along the walls.

Now, the others were getting up and moving about. With his eyes still shielded, Alistair heard the rustling of fabric, the rolling-up of bedrolls, and footsteps approaching him. _No, it’s too early…_

Jenny patted the top of his head. “Time to wake up, Alistair.”

“Okay… one minute…” he mumbled into the crook of his elbow.

“Afraid not,” Jenny chided, tugging on his ear. “Up.”

Alistair groaned again, but he did as he was told. He scooted out of the bedroll, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and began rolling it up into a lumpy, clumsy bundle. The other maid, Maura, gave it a disapproving look as she hoisted her own over her shoulder. Hers was perfectly neat.

The servants had few personal belongings to bring along with them, so packing up was a quick job. Alistair grabbed his bedroll and followed Jenny and Maura out the door.

They made their way down the hallway in single file, Alistair bobbing along at the rear. There was no sound from the arl and arlessa’s room as they passed by. From the next door, Alistair heard the jingling of chain mail- that would be the arl’s guards getting dressed.

The staircase descended onto a mezzanine above the ground floor of the inn. There weren’t many people about at this hour; Alistair saw only the innkeeper’s son wiping down the bar, and through the kitchen door, the cook pulling a spice jar down from a high shelf. The rest of the lodgers were probably still asleep in their rooms. _Lucky._

The young man behind the bar looked up from his cleaning and waved to the three of them as they passed through. Alistair’s stomach grumbled. The cook must be preparing breakfast for the arl… he hoped there would be some for him too. Since he had stowed away, they had had to stretch their provisions a bit, and Alistair had been given the dog’s share of every meal. He missed the taste of cheese and fresh-baked cookies already.

Outside, the village was almost as quiet as the inn. A few villagers were milling about, chopping wood or drawing water from the well, and two dogs were chasing each other over the bridge. A raven hopped along the fenceposts near the carriages. The air smelled damp, and the chill of the morning had not yet lifted.

Alistair dumped his bedroll next to the others in the back of the servants’ carriage. Next they would have to pack up the knights’ things, and the arl and arlessa’s things, and check on the oxen. Everything should be ready by the time the arl was out of bed; then, they could eat and be on their way.

When they went back inside, though, Eamon was already waiting for them in the large, comfortable room he and Isolde shared. He opened the door at Maura’s knock. Isolde was lying on the bed, with Connor in her lap. She looked up for a moment, but quickly returned her attention to the baby.

“Good morning,” the arl said, businesslike as usual. He swung the door open wider to let them enter. “Ah, Alistair’s with you. Not causing trouble, I hope?”

“Not yet, m’lord.” Jenny set about gathering up the clothes that the arl had discarded from the day before.

Maura frowned, heading to the dresser. “Might be trouble brewing in the sky, though. It looks like rain. M’lord.”

“I can see that.” Eamon glanced at the half-shuttered window. “If we’re lucky, the worst of it will pass us by. We should be able to set out right after breakfast.” He smiled. “Continue as you are, for now.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Maura began gathering the arl’s personal effects, and Jenny motioned for Alistair to come and help. Connor gurgled in Isolde’s lap.

Within a few trips, they were able to carry down most of what the arl and arlessa had brought with them into the inn. About half of that was Isolde’s belongings; jewelry, perfume, embroidered scarves and kerchiefs, all the precious trappings of a noble lady’s life. She kept them about her at all times, it seemed. They were stashed in the arl and arlessa’s carriage, along with the arl’s more modest baggage.

By the time all was packed up, breakfast was ready, and the first tiny sprinkles of rain were tickling Alistair’s arms. He frowned up at the darkening sky as Jenny ushered him back into the warmth of the inn.

“It’s raining,” he announced. Eamon, Isolde, and the knights were seated at the tables, eating off of the nicest plates the tavern had to offer. They barely looked up as he spoke.

Jenny and Maura took their seats at a third table, which had already been set with a hot breakfast- eggs, buttered biscuits, and little cups of tea. Alistair followed, and began wolfing it down before they had even lifted their forks.

“Alistair!” Jenny slapped him on the arm. “Chew your food.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit.

She smacked him again, more gently. “And don’t talk with your mouth full!”

Maura took a long sip of tea, observing their exchange with contempt.

They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence. Alistair listened in on the arl and arlessa’s conversation, but they weren’t saying much of interest. Eamon was pondering whether they’d have time to stop in and visit some hunting friend of his on their way up to Denerim, and Isolde was complaining of bland eggs. Alistair thought his were just fine.

He finished his breakfast well before anyone else had, and sat fidgeting in his chair while they caught up. The faint pattering of raindrops outside was gradually increasing to a noticeable drone.

Jenny picked at her nails, throwing a worried glance at a shuttered window. “Sounds like it’s picking up out there.”

“Just what we need,” Maura muttered. “Boy, if it starts-”

She was interrupted by a long, rolling thunderclap, followed by a sudden downpour.

Groaning, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Maker’s balls.”

Jenny shot Maura a chastising look at that, although Alistair wasn’t sure why. The rest of the inn’s patrons were looking up at the roof as though they hadn’t noticed the rain until just now.

The arl cleared his throat. “Well, this doesn’t sound good.”

“Shall we start bringing your bags in?” Jenny stood and turned to face him.

“I suppose that would be best…” Eamon sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Just what we’ll need for now. Bring in my books, and Connor’s things.” He shook his head. “I do hope this won’t be too much longer.”

“We’ll take care of it, m’lord.” Jenny headed for the door, and grabbed Alistair by the arm on her way. “Come along.”

She dragged him out the door and into the rain. It was coming down strong now, drumming against the rooftops and turning the dry, dusty earth into mud. Another roll of thunder sounded, this one stronger than the last.

“Oh, lovely,” Jenny groaned.

The rest of the village had retreated to the safety of their homes; even the dogs had taken shelter beneath an overhang. Beneath the drone of the rain, all the bustle of the morning had gone silent. Jenny pulled the back collar of her dress over her head.

She looked back and forth between the carriages and the inn, her jaw set. "All right," she declared after a moment, "you get the books, I'll get the diapers. Quickly. Go!" And she dashed off for the servants' carriage.

Alistair was a bit startled, but he fumbled with his vest and made it into a sort of makeshift hood like Jenny had done, and sprinted over to the arl's carriage. The rain roared in his ears. As he passed by, he caught a glimpse of Jenny grabbing a large, lumpy bag and hefting it over her shoulder.

He hopped up into the back of the wagon, exhaling as the raindrops stopped pounding on his head. _Books, books, where did they put the books..._ They had piled up all the arl and arlessa's closest belongings in a neat row. He scanned the chests and boxes, then froze. There was a small sound, a tiny _clack_ that came from his left...

Alistair turned his head. Perched atop an opened box of combs and pearls, there was a raven.

He yelped and jumped back all at once, just as the bird took flight. It was a small one, but its wingspan was impressive, and it flapped clumsily around the close space. The box it had perched upon was knocked over, spilling trinkets. Alistair grabbed the nearest object- a basket lid- and swung.

He had only intended to shoo the raven away, but his swing connected. The bird fell to the floor, rolling over and bursting into a pile of feathers, from which emerged a flailing pile of limbs. It was a person...

...it was Morrigan!

Her hair was disheveled, hanging over her face- but those were her eyes, big and yellow, wide with alarm. Alistair's jaw dropped. He nearly shouted before Morrigan leapt up, lightning-fast, and tackled him.

They crashed to the floor, and Morrigan flattened her palm against his mouth. " _Quiet!_ " she whispered urgently.

Affronted, Alistair bit her. She quickly withdrew her hand and wiped it on his shirt, then hid it away under her shawl. "Ugh!" she hissed under her breath. "Disgusting..."

"What are you _doing?"_ Alistair blurted. "And get off of me!" he exclaimed, pushing her away.

" _Hush!_ " Morrigan insisted. She sat back on her heels and braced her hands on the floor, fingers splayed. Her eyes darted back and forth like a cat's. It seemed she was ready to flee at the slightest movement, when she opened her mouth to speak- but Alistair interrupted.

The questions came bubbling forth all at once. "How did you get here? Did you _follow_ me? You were a _bird!_ How did you do that?!"

Morrigan's face screwed up into a scowl as he talked. She threw an anxious glance over her shoulder, then looked back at him. "Be _quiet_! Are you a fool? Someone might hear-"

She stopped and scooted backward into the corner, where the drapery over the back of the carriage obscured her from the world outside. With the rain coming down, it was hard to see more than about ten yards, or to hear anything but the beating of the raindrops on the roof.

Alistair's thoughts were racing faster than his heart, but he was beginning to put the pieces together. "That- that was magic!" he realized in an excited whisper. "You did magic!"

Morrigan pursed her lips, her eyes darting toward the village again. "Are you going to run to the templars?" she asked with a pointed glare.

"What? No! But- what are you doing here?" Alistair eyed the trinkets strewn across the floor. "Were you _stealing?_ "

"...I wanted to see if it was true," Morrigan answered, hesitant. "All you said about the arl and arlessa, and all these fine things..." Her eyes wandered to a jeweled necklace, and she picked it up. In the dim light, it still sparkled with every turn. "I have never seen anything like this," she breathed, enraptured.

"Er, you probably shouldn't be touching that." Alistair's brow furrowed. He stood up and dusted off his pants. "I need to go back inside. And you have to get out of here. If someone sees you, they're going to think you're a thief."

For a moment longer, Morrigan stared wistfully at the glittering necklace, then placed it back on the ground and lifted herself up.

Alistair returned to the rear opening of the carriage and looked out. The village was still quiet- no one was milling around outside.

 He turned back to Morrigan, who was straightening her shawl and peering into the box of treasures. "So... you're a... apostate?" he whispered, stumbling over the word. "Is that why you live in the woods?"

Morrigan looked up at him through a lock of dark hair, biting her lip.

"Come on, you can tell me! I'm not going to tell the templars. I don't even-"

"Alistair!"

The voice came from outside the carriage. A shout, muffled by the rain, but still unmistakably Jenny. Alistair and Morrigan both froze in place at the sound.

Alistair turned and looked out again. She was coming back through the rain again, her collar hung over her head.

He looked over his shoulder to warn Morrigan, but she had already scrambled over the piles of boxes and bags, and was leaping out of the front end of the carriage at breakneck speed. Within a second, she was nothing more than a black blur in the rain, and by the time Jenny reached the carriage, Morrigan had disappeared again.


	7. The Golden Truth

Not daring to look back, Morrigan ran.

Her footsteps squished on the wet earth, and damp strands of hair clung to her face. The air here was open and vulnerable. Once she made it to the woods, she could rest- but until then, she dared not stop for a second.

At least there were no shouts following her. She kept one arm against her chest, clutching the stolen prize flat against her pounding heart. _Just a little further..._

Even near the chantry, all was quiet. Morrigan darted into the shadow of its outer walls and slipped around the back. At last, the forest was in sight.

This was the place where she had fallen from a tree the day before. Where all of this excitement had begun.

Up ahead, a little ways into the woods, there was a wide, flat tree stump. It offered a tempting place to sit and catch her breath. Morrigan started toward it, walking now, picking her way through wet piles of leaves. Her thin boots were already soaked through. The trees provided some respite from the rain, though it wasn't much compared to the thick, full canopy of branches in the Wilds.

Morrigan sat down on the stump and exhaled. That had been a close call... how foolish of her to dally so long, gaping at all the arlessa's treasures. _Her beautiful,_ shiny _treasures..._

Even now, her safety was uncertain. No matter what he had said, Alistair might still report her to the templars. That was what Fereldans did; Mother had always told her that. A host of armored men and women would come sweeping through the woods, searching for an apostate girl, and Mother would have to dispose of them in one horrifying way or another, and then they would have to leave again.

Or perhaps Alistair _had_ spoken the truth.

She finally allowed herself to take a second look at her stolen treasure. A beautiful hand mirror. It glimmered in the soft morning light as she extracted it from beneath her shawl.

The whole of it was made with gold, with intricate filigree and a dazzling array of inlaid gemstones. Long, graceful lines of emeralds and sapphires intertwined along the back of the handle, then encircled the back of the mirror and framed a delicate engraving of a crown. That design was further embellished with embossed silver, and topped with sparkling rubies. It was breathtaking- and it had to be worth more than anything Morrigan had ever touched.

She turned it over, grinning. The front was no less ornate. A circle of rubies danced around the reflective glass, and there, Morrigan saw herself.

It was the clearest reflection she had ever seen, even with drops of rainwater beading up on the surface. No silver pond or discarded blade could compare to this. She was there, framed by gold and jewels, soaking wet and disheveled...

Morrigan's lips parted as she stared at herself. In such a mirror, she only looked even more the unkempt savage. Already, her imagination was changing the scene before her.

Instead of a frayed black shawl, she was wearing... _a beautiful violet gown. The neckline was trimmed with golden thread. Around her neck was a fine pearl necklace, and diamonds hung from her ears. Her hair was..._ Morrigan reached up and pulled at her ponytail, letting it fall to her shoulders. _Her hair was long, combed to silky perfection. Behind her, with wide eyes, stood... Alistair?_

"Morrigan?" he called.

She looked over her shoulder, and there he was. Quickly, Morrigan dropped the mirror into her lap. Her legs tensed. Should she run?

Alistair traipsed noisily toward her, kicking up leaves as he went. "You got me in trouble, you know," he declared- but he wasn’t shouting.

Morrigan couldn't figure out whether he was angry or pleased to have found her. Perhaps both. She folded her arms over the mirror in her lap, smiling warily. "If I had stayed, you would be in even greater trouble.”

"Yeah, I know," Alistair said, nonchalant as he slowed down and turned to face her. "But I had to pick up all that jewelry you knocked over. Thanks a lot. Then Jenny said she wanted me out of her _hair_. She didn't even ask where I was going." He grinned. "What's that you've got?"

"’Tis nothing," Morrigan answered quickly.

"Is it-" Alistair looked closer, frowning. "Hey, that's... that’s Isolde's! What are you doing with that?"

Morrigan jumped up and stood atop the stump, cursing herself. She should have run after all, when she had seen him coming... but there was nothing to be done about that now. She gripped the mirror tight.

"’Tis mine now,” she declared, staring directly into Alistair’s eyes. Perhaps she could scare him off with magic, if it came to that…

“What- no, it’s not _yours!_ ” Alistair grabbed for the mirror, but Morrigan held it away.

She backed away, hopping down from the stump on the other side. “I found it...”

“You can’t just _find_ something that belongs to someone else. I don’t know how you do things out in the Wilds, but-”

“There is nothing like _this_ out in the Wilds.” Morrigan glanced down at the mirror again, a reverent smile creeping across her lips. “So many jewels! Silver and gold! This is… ‘Tis…”

“It’s just a mirror,” Alistair snapped. “You can buy one anywhere. In the city, anyhow. But-”

Morrigan stamped her foot. “No! I cannot! I have never _seen_ a city, you fool.”

“Why don’t you just turn into a bird and _fly_ there?!”

“I cannot leave Mother.” She scowled. “Much as I would like to.”

“Is your mother a-” Alistair lowered his voice- “a mage too?”

What an obvious question. Morrigan wrinkled her eyebrows at him.

The boy huffed. “You can’t keep it. If Isolde finds out it’s gone, she’ll… I don’t know what she’ll do. I don’t want to find out.”

“How could your arlessa miss _one_ mirror? Amidst all those other treasures?”

“She will eventually… And then it’ll all be on me.” Alistair shifted from foot to foot. “Just give it back, Morrigan, please.”

Morrigan’s fingers clenched around the mirror’s handle. She turned, looked to the south- and broke into a sprint.

“Hey!” Alistair shouted.

Behind her, she heard the thumping of his footsteps. She only made a few paces before he fell upon her. At the last moment Morrigan rolled away to the left, and Alistair fell face-first into a mat of wet leaves.

A giggle rushed out of her as she hopped back. The boy was getting to his feet again, rubbing his face with his arm. “Come on!”

He charged at her once more, and Morrigan leapt delicately between thick tree-roots, clutching the mirror protectively against her chest. There was a flat, sloping rock around the side of the tree, pointing toward the stream. She ran up to the top of it, boots sliding on the mossy rain-slick surface, and hopped down on the other side. All the while, she could hear Alistair’s struggling pursuit a few yards back. “Stop it!”

There were small, rounded stones in the stream, some just large enough that they protruded from the water. Morrigan jumped across them, feeling the cold and wet soak through to her feet, and landed on the opposite bank. When she turned and looked back, Alistair was still standing on the other side, looking exasperated. He made a halting jump onto one stone, then the next, and winced as the water seeped into his shoes. “What is your problem?”

Morrigan watched and waited as the boy crossed. When he finally reached out to grab at her again, she turned and ran with a mocking grin.

Up ahead, there was a tall, skinny tree, with one limb jutting out at half again Morrigan’s height. Not an easy climb, especially with a delicate object in hand, but Morrigan did not lack for practice. With the mirror tucked between her chin and shoulder, she shimmied up the trunk, pushed off a protruding knot with her foot, and perched herself upon the branch. It bounced slightly under her weight.

“Oh, no you-” Alistair came to a skidding stop beneath the tree. He glared up at her, then at the smooth tree trunk, and then back at her. “Come on, come down!”

Morrigan giggled. She couldn’t help it, at the sight of the boy standing down there, wet hair plastered against his red face. Her right leg dangled off the branch, hanging just out of his reach.

Alistair pursed his lips. “It’s not funny! You’re a thief! You’re being a thief!”

“So?”

With a grunt of frustration, Alistair jumped and grabbed at her, his fingertips just brushing the tip of her boot. The branch swayed wildly as Morrigan scooted further out, laughing.

Then it dipped just a bit too low, and Alistair had his chance.

Before she knew what was happening, Morrigan felt hands around her ankle, and she was tumbling down. Her shawl flew over her eyes. She hit the ground, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The mirror slipped from her grasp and bounced away with a thump.

Blinking the stars from her eyes, Morrigan propped herself up on an elbow. Alistair was on the ground as well, rubbing at his face as he lifted himself up. His eyes were darting back and forth, searching.

A few feet away, they both spotted it. The mirror was lying face-down against a thick tree root.

Morrigan jumped to her feet, wincing slightly at the soreness in her side, but Alistair was already dashing gracelessly ahead. She had to stop herself against the tree trunk when she caught up, and the boy had it in his hands.

She held her breath as he turned it over.

Alistair sighed with relief. The mirror was intact. A bit muddy around the edges, now, but the boy rubbed it against his shirt. Then, he turned upon Morrigan.

“Are you mad?! What if you broke it?”

Morrigan made a half-hearted grab for the mirror again, but Alistair had a white-knuckled grip upon it. She leaned back against the tree and folded her arms with a resigned huff. “’Twas you who made me fall.”

Alistair’s bottom lip curled. “ _You_ stole it!”

“I _took_ it.”

“Whatever you call it, you’re still…” Mid-thought, Alistair took a few slow steps back.

Morrigan glanced over her shoulder; there was nothing there. “What?”

The boy looked uncertain. “You’re… I’ve never met an aps- an apostate before?” There was a slight tremble to his voice, but it raised into a question at the end.

Morrigan could feel a knot forming in her stomach. “Are you afraid?”

“N-no… well… you’re not going to turn me into a frog, are you?” Alistair tugged at the hem of his shirt.

“A frog?” Morrigan could scarcely believe it- she burst out laughing. “You truly believe in such tales?” she asked between fits.

“I don’t know! You turned into a bird!” Alistair threw his arms wide like wings. “How did you _do_ that?”

The thought sent prickles of excitement all through Morrigan’s body. To explain such a thing… to talk of magic with someone other than Mother… It was dangerous, it was unimaginable! But this boy already knew of her magic, had already seen her in animal form, and had not run away from her. This was her chance.

She exhaled. “I watch the animals of the forest,” she said. “Mice, wolves, ravens… I can become anything if I watch it enough.”

Alistair’s eyes went wide. “I’ve never heard of that kind of magic.”

“My mother taught me. Mother told me ‘tis an old magic from the Chasind.”

“So… your mother’s a Chasind witch?”

“No.” Morrigan rubbed the toe of her boot along the ground. “Well… I do not know. She does not speak of such things.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Alistair frowned.

“I _have_ asked her, but… Mother never truly answers.” Morrigan rolled against the tree trunk, turning to face the stream. It was swelling with rainwater, carrying fallen leaves and twigs down to the village.

“But she’s a mage, too.” Alistair’s footsteps padded against the damp, dead leaves. He came up and stood next to her, still clutching the mirror nervously. His voice lowered to almost a whisper. “So you’re out here hiding from the templars.”

“Most of the time, they do not travel so far south. But when the common folk find us, we leave.”

“But you’ve never left the Wilds?” Alistair asked.

“Never.”

“Oh. Well… I’ve never lived anywhere but Redcliffe. Maybe I’ll leave one day, when I’m a grown-up. But I don’t want to leave Jenny, and the other maids, and the other stable boys, and the arl too, even though he’s not really my family.”

“How lucky you are.” Morrigan kicked a pebble into the stream. “I have no one but Mother.”

Alistair stared. “Don’t you have any friends?”

Morrigan stared right back. “Where would I find a friend?”

“I don’t know, aren’t there Chasind kids? Or Dalish elves? There must be _someone_ else around.”

“There is no one. No one but hunters and warriors, and they… Only Mother has any use for them.” The rest was better left unsaid.

She could hardly believe all she had said already. Morrigan slumped back against the tree, her heart pounding. Alistair was gazing off to the south, to the deep woods and the Wilds. The rain droned on the leaves overhead.

Morrigan spoke up. “Until now…” She met his gaze, then quickly looked away again. “I have never spoken of this to anyone. I have never _done_ this before.”

“So I’m your first friend ever?” The boy’s eyes lit up.

“What?” Morrigan turned to face him. “We only met a day ago.”

“But we played together, and we talked about all kinds of stuff… Don’t you want to be friends?” Alistair shrugged. 

_More than anything_ , Morrigan thought. Someone other than Mother to confide in, to run and play with, and to come closer to the golden world she had glimpsed so closely. Finally, she had reached out and touched it. But… She swallowed the thought. “It hardly matters. You are leaving today, are you not?”

“Well… Maybe I’ll see you again when we come back from Denerim.”

“When will you come back?” Morrigan’s heart leapt.

“Er, I don’t know…” With his free hand, Alistair scratched at the back of his head. “Maybe in a month? A few weeks, at least. Arl Eamon has to visit all his friends and show them the baby.” He wrinkled his nose.

Morrigan shook her head. “I cannot keep coming here just to see if you have returned. Mother would surely find out.”

“But then I won’t see you again.” Alistair’s face fell.

“I suppose not.”

The two stood for a moment, watching the stream. The mirror still dangled from Alistair’s right hand. Nervously, Morrigan squeezed the rain from her hair and tied it back again.

Alistair broke the silence. “Well... What other magic can you do?”

“You wish to see?” Morrigan blinked.

“I mean… Don’t set anything on fire, but can you do a spell?” Alistair rubbed at his arm.

Morrigan’s eyes darted around: ahead of her, behind, to the village… Of course, no one was watching. Except Alistair. The boy’s eyes went wide as she lifted her hand.

Gently, between her palm and her fingertips, she summoned forth the tiniest wisp of magic. The raindrops dripping from the trees above turned to little flecks of ice, forming a cloudy crystal in her hand. She held it out to Alistair.

Slowly, with eyes full of wonder, the boy reached out and plucked it from her hand. “Ice!” He marveled at it a moment longer, then popped it in his mouth and bit on it.

“You _eat ice?_ ” Morrigan gaped.

“What? It’s just water. Snow, too. Haven’t you ever eaten snow?” Alistair grinned.

Perhaps once, when she was younger… Morrigan burst out giggling at the thought. Soon, the both of them were laughing together. “Do it again!” the boy laughed, and she obliged, tossing a fist-sized ball of ice for him to catch. He juggled it in his hand, then pitched it into the stream.

“Wow. That’s amazing,” Alistair declared as the ice floated away. “I wish I could do that.”

Morrigan laughed. “You would be taken away by the templars, would you not?”

“Yeah, I guess, but then I would just have to live in the Circle with the mages,” Alistair said. “I bet it wouldn’t be so bad… No one would even know I’m a bastard.”

“A bastard?” Morrigan had never heard the word.

“You know, a kid with no father.”

“Ah…” There was a special name for children such as they two? “What does that matter? You cannot change such a thing.”

“I don’t know, some of the older kids at Redcliffe make fun of me for it. And the grown-ups act different too, some of them.” Alistair kicked at a rock. “Not the maids, they’re nice, mostly. But the arlessa…”

“She believes the arl is your father.” Morrigan remembered. How exciting, she had thought, if the boy were secretly a noble! It would be just like one of her fables.

Alistair shook his head. “She’s just suspicious, I think.”

“Is it strange for the arl to treat you as he does?”

“Well…”

An uncertain look had crossed Alistair’s face. His lips parted slightly, then closed again, as if searching for words.

Morrigan stared intently. The boy was looking at his feet, searching for some sort of resolve, and then it seemed he found it. “The real reason is, my father…”

He took a deep breath, and met her eyes. “He’s the king.”


	8. The Looming Shadow

Morrigan’s eyes had gone wide. The girl stared owlishly at him, disbelieving.

“The king?” she whispered. Alistair nodded.

His heart was racing, and he felt all at once as though he were standing chest-deep in ice. He had said it! For the first time, he had said it!

Morrigan huffed out a breathless laugh. “You are lying. Do you think me so easily fooled?”

Alistair shook his head. “I’m not lying! I’ve never told anyone before, but…” He rubbed his open hand over the one holding the mirror. Somehow his palms had broken out in a sweat. “It’s the truth.”

The girl frowned, skepticism and wonder warring across her face. “If the king were your father, then that would make you a _prince_.” The word rushed forth from her lips.

“Oh, no. No, no, I’m not,” Alistair stammered, waving his arm in front of himself. Arl Eamon had made it abundantly clear, after emphasizing that he must never, ever speak of his parentage to anyone, that it didn’t mean Alistair was royalty himself. “I’m a bastard,” he repeated. “I’m just the same as any other kid. Don’t say the p-word.”

“What do you mean?” Morrigan circled to his left, pacing around Alistair in slow steps. She was staring at him with eyes wide, as if looking upon a strange and fascinating animal. “A king’s son is a prince. Why would you be any different?”

Alistair shook his head. Had he gone too far by telling her this?  “There’s already a prince, and I’m not him. The king prob’ly doesn’t even know I exist.”

Morrigan stopped, a few paces to his left. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you… telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Alistair said quietly.

For a moment, Morrigan was silent, her bottom lip twitching. She stared straight at him, not speaking, until-

“How can you _allow_ it?” she burst out. “Your father is the king, and you sleep in the stables? While this arl and arlessa live in the castle, eating off silver plates? And they use you as a servant! Are you _happy_ to live such a life?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alistair snapped. “I can’t just go around telling everyone, hey, I’m the king’s bastard! I couldn’t be a prince even if I wanted to.”

Morrigan’s fingers were trembling. “If you _wanted_ to? You mean you would not take the chance if it came?”

“It’s not going to happen anyway, so… there’s no point thinking about it. I shouldn’t have even told you.” Alistair clenched his fists and looked away. The studded mirror handle dug into his palm.

Above the murmur of the brook, and the raindrops pattering on the trees, a low thunder rumbled through the sky. Morrigan’s boot scuffled against the fallen leaves. When Alistair looked back, she was staring away at nothing, her brow furrowed in thought.

Finally, she met his eyes again. “How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he is your father.” Morrigan shifted, grasping her right wrist.

Alistair took a step closer, turned, and leaned against a tree to face the stream.

“I asked the arl. Well, I asked him a lot of times, who my father was. But he kept saying he’d tell me when I was older. But then…” Alistair reached up with his free hand to touch his chest, and felt the little lump beneath his shirt- the small amulet he’d worn since he could remember. The shape felt comforting between his fingers.

\---

The last time he had asked the arl about his father, Alistair had been grasping the amulet in the same way. It was nighttime, after dinner, and he was in the castle library. There was a tiny, secluded corner at the end of a row of shelves where Alistair had established something of a personal hideaway. On the bottom shelf there was enough room for him to sit, and with a stolen chair cushion and a stack of his favorite picture books, he spent many an evening there. Even when he didn’t feel like reading, it was a good place to be alone. Sometimes the arl came in to read, but usually, the library was empty by the end of the night.

All was quiet that evening. Alistair muffled a yawn as he emerged from his corner. As he came out of the stacks, though, he saw Arl Eamon- in a chair by the dark fireplace with his feet up, a hefty tome of war history open on his lap. The arl glanced up, and his eyes met Alistair’s.

“Well,” Arl Eamon chuckled. “What are you doing in here at this hour?”

“Just reading,” Alistair mumbled, sheepish. Really, he had mostly been daydreaming, and trying to scratch an “A” into the wall behind the bookcase. But the arl didn’t need to know that.

“Reading for pleasure?” The arl raised his eyebrows. “That’s very good. And what did you learn?”

 “Er… I learned how Ser Cordelia defeated three dragons at once, with a slingshot.” Alistair scratched his head.

Arl Eamon sighed… then shook his head, smiling. “Oh, to be young again. Enjoy those stories while you can. Before you know it, you’ll be studying history.”

The book in the arl’s lap was open to a page of solid black text, not a picture or an embellishment to be seen. “What are _you_ reading about?” Alistair asked.

“Right now I’m on… the founding of Ferelden.” The arl flipped back a page. “You know the story?”

Alistair had a vague impression of it. He had heard the story once or twice, from the maids or the other stableboys, but not in great detail. “King Calenhad brought the tribes together. They were all fighting, but then he convinced them all to be one country.”

“If only it were so simple,” the arl laughed. “Actually, Calenhad started out as a squire, and it was over fifteen years of war before he was crowned king. He was an honorable man… but his sword did most of the convincing.”

“Oh.” Alistair fidgeted at the hem of his shirt.

The arl’s gaze returned to the page before him, and he smoothed it out with the palm of his hand. “Perhaps I’ll tell you the rest of the story one day soon. But you should get to bed now, Alistair.”

“Right.”

Alistair made for the doorway, thinking. _One day soon…_ He doubted he would get the full story from Arl Eamon. Maybe he would ask one of the maids what else they knew about King Calenhad, or read about it in some other book. But he couldn’t remember the arl ever sitting him down to a story. Not even when he asked…

He looked back, a few steps from the door. “Arl Eamon?”

The arl turned and looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Alistair reached up and touched his mother’s amulet beneath his shirt. He could feel his heartbeat picking up. “About my father…” He swallowed. “When are you going to tell me?”

He didn’t mention what he had heard a few days ago: the rumor that the arlessa thought Alistair was Eamon’s son. The maids had passed it back and forth in the kitchen when they thought no one else was listening, when their speculation about the arl’s virtue was safe from observation. What they didn’t know was that, at the mention of his name, Alistair had stopped just outside the door.

The arl was silent for a moment, as Alistair’s question hung in the air between them. He turned back to his book and closed it with a quiet _thud._

“Perhaps it _is_ time you knew,” he said.

Alistair was frozen in place, the amulet between his fingers.

“Come,” the arl said, “sit down.” As Alistair stepped past his chair, he placed his big, heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. Alistair took the seat next to the arl, facing into the fireplace.

He hadn’t really believed that rumor, about the arl being his father. The possibility had even occurred to him before that, but he quickly dismissed the idea. But now… _could it be true?_

Arl Eamon ran his fingers along the edge of his book again. The cover was bound in rich green leather, and the title was set in gold. “ _The Rise of the Southern Kingdom_.”

With a small sigh, the arl looked up, and began the tale.

\---

“And then he said I could never tell anyone, ever.” Alistair snorted. As he finished the story, his back slid down the trunk of the tree, leaving him sitting between the roots and the stream.

Morrigan, without a sound, folded down and sat cross-legged just a yard away. Her skirt splayed out around her. She stared at the stream for a moment, then turned her head and stared at Alistair. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time, wondering, but somewhat apprehensive.

In the discomfort of the moment, Alistair grinned. “You’re not going to tell anyone, right?”

The girl’s face twisted into a frown, then a confused smile. “Who would I tell it to?” She punctuated the question with a little laugh.

The mirror was lying face down at Alistair’s side. He picked it up and gazed at his reflection; his hair was wet, sticking out in pointed clumps, and the tree bark was dark and damp behind him.

“Do you think it will always be a secret?” Morrigan asked.

 “Yeah, probably.” Alistair dropped the mirror into his lap. “The arl said I’d be in danger if people found out. And I’d still be a bastard anyway, so it’s better if no one knows.”

Morrigan clenched at the ragged hem of her skirt. “How can you _stand_ it? I could never keep such a secret, not when… not if you could be…”  She glanced away, struggling for the right words.

“I told you, there’s no point thinking about it,” Alistair repeated dully, without the same ardor as before. “I’m lucky the arl’s done so much for me. He didn’t have to tell me the truth, and he didn’t even have to take me in.” He reached up and felt the amulet again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Morrigan frowning again. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, beads of rain running down her arms. “What is that?”

“This?” Alistair drew the amulet up through the collar of his shirt. “It’s just a Chantry necklace. My mother’s once.”

“Do you believe in all that? The Chantry?” Morrigan asked.

“What, you mean Andraste? And the Maker? Well, yeah, I mean…” Alistair looked up at her, puzzled. “Don’t you?”

The girl snorted. “No. There is no Chantry in the Wilds. I do not know how you all can believe such tales.”

“I don’t think _everyone_ does…” Alistair fidgeted with the necklace. “I just wear this because it belonged to my mother. I don’t have anything else of hers, you know?”

“Hmmm.” Morrigan buried her mouth into her knees. Another roll of thunder echoed across the sky.

She spoke up again, somewhat muffled by the cloth of her skirt. “My mother never gave me any such gift. Not a Chantry amulet, but… any pretty thing such as that.”

“She didn’t give it to me. I only have it ‘cause she’s dead.” Alistair tucked the amulet back under his shirt. “Arl Eamon was the one who gave it to me.”

“Hmph. This Arl Eamon is more generous to you than my own mother to me.”

Morrigan’s tone was sullen, but there was something in the way she glared out at the stream ahead that betrayed a hint of… something else. Jealousy, maybe. But the girl also looked sad in a way, rain dripping from her wild black hair, scowling into her thin dress.

Alistair wondered if his own mother had been a kind person. Perhaps she would have been cold and distant, like Morrigan’s mother seemed to be. She might have hated him for being a bastard, even though that had been her and the king’s doing, not his. One of the older stableboys had implied as much, once. But though the other children in Redcliffe were sometimes cruel, and Isolde didn’t like him, and he had to sleep with the dogs sometimes… he still wouldn’t trade it for Morrigan’s lot, living in the woods with no one but the Chasind and the forest creatures. And her mother.

He pushed himself up off the ground, brushing wet pine needles from the seat of his pants, and started over toward Morrigan. She startled a bit at Alistair’s approach, and her yellow eyes peered up at him, curious.

“Here.” He held out the mirror to her with his right hand. “You’re right. The arlessa prob’ly won’t miss it.” Alistair felt heat rising in his cheeks.

The girl’s eyes grew even larger. For a moment, she looked back and forth between Alistair’s face and the golden mirror, incredulous. Quickly, though, she snatched it up and turned it over in her hands. She tilted it back and forth, watching the gemstones glitter in the dim morning light, while Alistair shifted from foot to foot. His stomach fluttered.

Morrigan turned back to him, her mouth set in a grave line. _Really?_ she seemed to be asking.

Alistair rubbed at his arm and gave an awkward nod. Had he done the right thing? There was no taking it back now.

At that moment, a voice called through the rain. It sounded a lot like Jenny’s voice, and something like Alistair’s name.

Alistair froze. “I…” He clenched his fists. “I’d better get back.”

Morrigan was already on her feet, shoving the mirror beneath her shawl and tucking it against her chest. She was poised to run, like a spooked cat, back into the woods.

“Bye, Morrigan!” And with that, Alistair turned away and broke into a run. Back the way they had come- along the swollen stream, past the slanted rock… He looked back over his shoulder once, but she was already gone, perhaps never to be seen again.

\---

When he caught up with Jenny, she grabbed him so tightly by the arm that he might have gotten a bruise. She looked almost as angry as he had ever seen her, red-faced and soaked from head to foot. “What in Andraste’s name were you doing all the way out here? And in this rain?” Jenny huffed as she marched him away. “Do you know how long we were looking for you?”

“We?” Alistair squeaked.

“You’re lucky Maura didn’t find you, or she’d have smacked you all the way back to Redcliffe. Might still, when we get back. Were you trying to run away and live with the Chasind?”

Alistair made a face. “No… I was only playing, Jenny, I promise.”

“ _Playing?_ You look like you fell in the crick, and hit your head on a rock, too. What happened to helping us bring the arl’s luggage back in? I swear, you’re ten times the trouble you’re worth…”

So Jenny continued, lecturing him all the way back to the inn, and Alistair could hardly get a word in edgewise. She was incensed, but in the loving, long-suffering way she always was; really, it was Maura’s reaction he was afraid of. But when they met up with her outside the arl’s carriages, she said nothing, only rolled her eyes as if she were beyond words. She, too, was soaked to the bone.

The three hurried into the inn, tracking puddles of water through the sitting area and up into their room, and Jenny rubbed Alistair dry with a scratchy towel. She ruffled up his hair for good measure.

After they were all somewhat presentable, they dropped in on the arl and arlessa again, to see about their plans. The sky was still booming with thunder, and the rain still poured furiously against the roof, so it wasn’t likely that they would be moving on until later in the day.

Arl Eamon rubbed his chin, gazing out the window. “This is unfortunate. I do hope we won’t be delayed much longer.”

Baby Connor was in the corner, asleep in his bassinet. Isolde was seated and braiding her hair with a put-upon look. She stuck a hairpin in and ran her fingers over her work.

She turned to where the arl was standing by the dresser, where the maids had unloaded a box of her combs and sundries. “Love,” she asked, “could you hand me my mirror?”

“Of course,” Eamon said, and reached for the box.

Alistair gulped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work now has cover art: http://glowingvenus.tumblr.com/post/121612983954


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